His Constant
by Firefly11
Summary: Killian gets his hand back, and then he doesn't. Emma tries to get him to admit that it bothers him. CS. One-Shot.


_A/N: Based very loosely on BTS spoiler pics, but it's an idea I've had rolling around for awhile. This became a lot angstier than I intended, but it gets lighter at the end. CS, obviously. Rated T? IDK there's no smut._

_Summary: Killian gets his hand back, and then he doesn't. Emma tries to get him to admit that it bothers him._

**His Constant.**

The pirate is too goddamn stubborn to admit it, but Emma can practically see the waves of frustration and disappointment rolling off him since he got the hook back.

_It was worth it, love, if only for a moment_, he'd assured her with a fleeting smile and a kiss that warmed her heart. _I'd lose my hand a hundred thousand times over, and you would still be worth it. _

While she doesn't doubt his sincerity, it doesn't mean he isn't hurting. How couldn't he be? For God knows how long, he'd been without his left hand. In that time, he'd adapted to the loss.

(Killian Jones is, she's come to realize with not a little awe, extremely adaptable for a pirate thrown into the twenty-first century. His bemusement in the face of modern technology in Storybrooke has not once stayed him from soaking up every bit of information he can, from walkie talkies to microwaves to coffee makers to _this bloody colorful magic box_ he calls the television. She knows he doesn't feel like he fits in, but he's _trying._)

Over hundreds of years, he'd adapted to having a hook for a hand. As Emma had wryly observed once before, any excuse was a good excuse for him to use it. And she's experienced first-hand how well he incorporates it into his sword-fighting. But she knows it's more than just a mildly useful appendage. When Gold took his hand, Killian carved out a piece of himself and filled it with cold, immovable steel. He became Captain Hook, and Killian Jones was a frail remnant of a long-forgotten dream.

Things are different now, as every day he manages to prove—to her, to her family—to the town (although she guesses that'll take longer)—how he is _more_ than just a pirate. The hook is part of him, but it doesn't _define_ him—not anymore. It serves, instead, as a reminder that he was once a man who loved a woman; a pirate obsessed with vengeance; a villain who cared for no one and nothing but his own life; and finally, whether or not he is ready to admit it, a _hero_. He's been all of those things, and the hook—

(and his ship; she hasn't forgotten . . . will _never_ forget what he gave up for her)

—the hook is his constant. And up until about two weeks ago, it'd been a part of him.

Then he got his hand back.

So he'd tucked the hook away in a drawer and, once again, _adapted_—this time, to having two hands instead of one. Emma had watched the blue storm of his eyes surge with disbelief and wonder when he first inspected the appendage he'd gone so long without. She'd smiled as he muttered curses and praises to the gods and used both palms to cup her face, both sets of fingers to adoringly twirl the ends of her hair and clasp her hand and stroke her jaw and slip under the hem of her shirt, both hands to pull her close and grip her hips and set a fire under her skin and wander her body with a purposeful, _agonizing_ slowness that he knew drove her absolutely crazy.

The timing had (foolishly, in hindsight) seemed perfect. Here they are, growing closer, letting down their walls, starting to come to grips with the fact that they're . . . _together_ . . . and _boom_. Just as they're about to dip off that precipice of intimacy and finally succumb to the relentless sexual tension building between them . . . Captain Hook gets his freaking hand back.

It lasted for a few great weeks, but as all magic has its price, this was no exception. He'd lost the hand again, and with a resolved sigh, Killian opened the drawer and locked the hook back in place where it once belonged. He'd turned to her and said something like, _That's more like it, isn't it, Swan?_ But this time, the grin didn't reach his eyes. Not even close.

For the next few days, she caught the quick, instinctive movements of his left arm—reaching for one of her fries or a lock of her hair. And then his eyes would flash suddenly in disappointment and frustration and his cheeks would redden when he realized there was nothing with which to touch but cold, immovable, unfeeling steel.

And the timing, which had seemed so stupidly perfect, couldn't have been worse.

He'd seen himself as _whole, _and now he wasn't, and remembering what it was like (after so many years of adapting and forgetting) right before being _less_ again made it that much worse. After having her (so slowly, deliciously, heatedly, _lovingly_) with two hands, now it was as though he didn't think she'd want him as much.

Which was, of course, complete bullshit.

Emma wants to tell him he couldn't be more wrong, that it didn't matter to her if he had a hand or a hook or a freaking spatula. She is falling for him—has been falling for him, she thinks, for a long time, long before they both got a taste of what it was like for him to have two hands. She wants to tell him that any displeasure he senses is for his unhappiness. She doesn't give him pity, but she won't pretend she doesn't care, either.

They're sitting at a cozy little table in the Rabbit Hole (he'd waited for her to sit first because he's a _gentleman, love_ (he winks), but Emma wonders with an ache in her heart if it's so he could secure himself a seat on her left side) and she's had a couple shots of rum already, so when a group of patrons at a table nearby murmur under their breaths and glance warily at Killian's hook and her pirate scratches behind his ear and tries to pretend he didn't notice, Emma comes right out with it.

"I know it's hard, Killian."

She's being sincere, delicate, and is honestly confounded when his body, already angled toward her, shifts closer in a very deliberate move. His lips twitch up into a slow, lazy smirk and his tongue briefly taps against his teeth and she already knows where this is going by the time he leans in and murmurs: "But are you _quite_ sure, Swan? Perhaps you should come closer and feel for confirmation."

He pats his thigh and Emma sighs, unable to decide if she wants to scoff or shove him against a wall and feel just how hard she can make him. Of _course_ the bastard sees her flush, spots that bit of hesitation

(open book)

and when his own darkened gaze drops to her lips, she swallows and puts a hand up to stay him (and herself) from getting off track. That could (and _would_, she hopes) come later, but right now, he needs this—whether he realizes it or not.

"You know what I mean."

He sighs and leans back in defeat. His hand brings the glass of rum to his lips and he takes a long sip. Emma knows a wall when she sees one, but she's nothing if not stubborn and he knows it, so he finally shrugs and flashes a humorless smile. "I had a hand. Now I don't. I've lived without one for a very long time, lass. I assure you I'm quite capable of—"

"Stop," she says, lips pressing tightly together. She puts a hand on his wrist. "I know you're capable, Hook. I've seen it."

He studies her and swallows, waiting.

"I know what it's like." She takes a deep breath and proceeds, "to go a long time _wanting_ something you don't have . . . until you forget ever wanting it in the first place."

His eyes roam her face and his head tilts in that way—the way that makes her feel like he hangs on her every word because he wants to know and understand. Not many people have ever looked at her like he looks at her, have ever _cared_ half as much. It's always scared her, but these days it scares her a little less.

"I remember seeing Henry's face when he showed up at my door and said he was my son. And I remember what it felt like to . . . to realize what I missed. And I know after you found me in New York I didn't seem grateful to be back here in Storybrooke with my family, but after Pan cast that curse . . . _leaving_ my family after I'd _just_ found them was the second hardest thing I'd ever done in my life."

Her voice wavers and she feels the sting of tears in her eyes at the memory.

"I _know_ what it's like, Killian, to get something back you'd thought was gone forever, and I know what it's like to lose something you'd never thought you'd have. So don't sit here and pretend like it doesn't bother you, because _I get it_. I'm not the only open book here."

For a long time, he is silent. His lips part, uncertainty passes across his face, and then he nods, just barely, and just once.

"Aye," he says, and bows his head.

Emma releases a quiet breath of relief. _Finally_.

"And this?" she says, leaning slightly back in her chair. "You and me? I hope you know that what happened with your hand doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?

She frowns. "Are you really asking me that?"

He holds up his drink, maintaining her gaze. "Can you blame me? Compared to a hand, you can't pretend that this—" He turns his hook back and forth "—is immensely appealing to you, other than being of excellent use in a fight."

She blinks at him in disbelief. Every moment she spends with him she realizes Killian Jones is a man of many facets. Sometimes he's all swagger and cockiness, pulling her toward him and asking her with a knowing smirk if she missed him, and other times he's doubtful and sensitive, all _thank you for sacrificing your magic to save me from drowning, _as if saving his life was ever a question.

She's absolutely certain he will never cease to surprise her.

"Killian, I'm sorry you got your hand back and lost it. But having it didn't make you . . . any more or less than you are. Not to me."

She looks at him, willing him to see the truth in her eyes.

He does. She can see it in the way he softly smiles, and the way his eyes brighten. He knows.

There. Mission accomplished. She takes a victorious swig of her drink, feeling a little thrill at the way his eyes follow the movement of her throat. "Besides," she says, the words slipping out before she can rein them back in, "the hook is—"

_Shit_. She catches herself, but now his eyebrow is raised in curiosity and heat floods her cheeks. _Shit_.

"Is what, Swan?"

She waves a hand in search for the words. It's way too late to back down now. She bets this is the first (and only) time he'll ever need an ego boost. "It's kinda . . . weirdly . . . sexy."

Another sip to avoid looking at his face, and once she does, she sees _both _brows raised in amusement and his eyes wandering to her lips and lower and she could practically _feel_ the sinful thoughts running through his head and _goddammit_.

"_Don't_," she says in warning. "Just don't, Hook."

He doesn't even bother feigning innocence. "Don't what, Swan?"

"I swear to God I will deny I ever said that."

He hums noncommittally and for a moment, she thinks he might even let it go (though the boldness of the alcohol burning through her wonders if maybe she'd be disappointed if he did). Then he uses the damn _hook_ to pull her chair closer to him. At the same time, he scooches forward on his own chair (hips first, reminding her of his past self back during their little _Back to the Future_ adventure in the Enchanted Forest) and he breathes in, eyes raising up from her chest to her eyes.

The hook grazes her thigh.

"_Killian_." It was supposed to come out warningly, but it just sounds breathy and Emma wants to kill him.

"So, I suppose the prospect of me . . ." His voice is a low murmur. The hook slides up to her hip, brushing the hem of her shirt.

". . . relieving you of these garments . . ." It slips underneath, cold metal kissing her skin.

" . . . using my _hook_ . . ." The tip teases the button of her jeans. She can smell the rum on his breath, and her eyes can't seem to tear themselves away from his lips, just _inches_ away.

" . . . has never once occurred to you this evening, hmm?"

Her eyelashes flutter, and despite the way this man has a knack for unraveling her, she remembers (oh, she remembers) the bests ways to unravel him.

She grasps his hook and pulls it away, giving her just enough room to run her hand over it—caresses it, with that same maddening slowness he loves to tease her with, and watches his eyes follow the movement.

He swallows, and now it's her turn to smile. "Why don't you take me home and find out, _pirate_?"

His lips part in a toothy eager smile and he inclines his head and moves to stand. "As the lady insists."

She stands with the aid of both his hand and his hook and lets him lead her out of the bar.

By the end of the night, her clothes are torn to shreds.


End file.
